


ain't nobody's saint

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beta Derek Hale, Consensual Non-Consent, Corporal Punishment, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Just the Tip, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulative Peter Hale, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Multiple, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) is a Failwolf, Werewolf Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 13:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “Are you certain, pet?” He slides his hand around, pressing his palm to the vulnerable belly, and is gratified when the scent ofwantgrows stronger. “It would be easier on you to give me what we both want.”The jittery heartbeat skips, and the boy’s scent turns resigned. “Getting what you want isn’t the point of punishment, Alpha,” he murmurs quietly, and oh, it’s like that, is it?





	ain't nobody's saint

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. Gals. Enby pals. Here there be monsters. 
> 
> I repeat: **_This fic is dark_**. It has consent issues out the yang. Those tags are up there for a reason. I used **Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings** because this contains many nuances of ick, and I wanted to cover all the bases. Proceed with caution, additional info is in the end notes if you need it. Take care of yourselves. 
> 
> Happy Friday, and Happy New Year!

 

 

After seeing the way Peter thrashes Derek for the attempted avunculicide, Stiles knows. Peter’s the Alpha, and that’s—that’s something Scott is gonna have to live with, because Scott will never dirty his own hands. Not when push comes to shove.

The only reason he escapes a thrashing is because—as Peter put it—he gets one “freebie”. After this, he’s going to be treated the same way any other pack member does.

Because apparently he is pack, now. Even after saying “no” to the Bite in the parking garage—he didn’t know that humans could be pack, but. Given that he’s invested in Derek and Scott both staying alive, and in Peter not killing anyone else who doesn’t 1000% need to die, it’s the best position to be in.

 

 

He’s surprised when the boy comes to him. Mostly because the beta he’s trying to protect is practically useless, but that’s Stiles’s loyalty for you, he supposes.

He doesn’t like it—has never liked the Rite of Substitution, let alone this bastardized version that leaves the actual offender unaware of his crimes—but he agrees. For now, even if Stiles doesn’t know that. This will be a temporary measure, until he can either earn that coveted loyalty, or bring the McCall whelp to heel.

But, in the meantime, it’s not as though he won’t enjoy having a pretty boy at his mercy.

 

 

The first time Peter comes through his window, his reaction is an even mix of relief and dread. He knew this was coming, just not when, and—in a way—it’s easier to not have to wait. But that doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to this.

“You know why I’m here?” The question is accompanied by a flash of red irises, because Peter’s a dramatic asshole.

He nods once, and licks his lips. “Scott mouthed off. Disrespected you.”

Peter hums. “Correct. So how will you pay for his sins, Stiles? In pain, or pleasure?”

His heart stutters and then starts pounding because that—he doesn’t want that to mean what he thinks it does. But he never did specify how Peter would “take it out on him” when Scott was being a stubborn shithead, so the fact that Peter’s asking right now is—well. “What, uh. What would those mean, exactly? For tonight?”

He gets a smile like Peter’s pleased with him, and the part of him that’s packbound to his Alpha goes warm with satisfaction. The rest of him worries what that means. “Tonight?” Peter looks him over thoughtfully. “Tonight you’ll get on your knees, and take either four strikes from my belt, or,” he pauses, and Stiles thinks that no matter what comes next, he’s gonna choose the belt, “you can wrap those pretty lips around my cock and make me come. Your choice.”

He’s stunned. It’s not like he never thought Peter was Uncle Bad Touch, because yeah, he definitely did, but he never thought he’d be provided with this kind of evidence. And, okay, he’s maybe been curious, about what it would be like, with a guy, to do . . . _that_ , but even still—“Belt,” he rasps.

Peter dips his chin. “Ask your question, sweetheart. I’m all but choking on your curiosity from here.”

Well, at least he can’t make things worse. “I just—I guess I don’t understand? About the choice, I mean. Like, I get needing to discipline your betas, because you’re the Alpha, but I don’t get the, uh,” he waves a hand around in a vague gesture, “’pleasure’ part.”

That gets him a real smile, with eye crinkles and everything. “Because, traditionally, in a stable pack, issues of discipline involve one or both elements. Albeit less explicitly.” He nods, and Peter continues. “Either the beta will recognize that they’ve crossed a line, and seek to make it up to their Alpha through an act of service, or,” Peter pauses, eyes flashing and claws peeking out from his fingertips, “the recalcitrant beta will be shown the error of their ways. In those cases, the act of service they’re expected to perform are more, shall we say, _personal_ in nature.”

And, oh, that makes the lightbulb click on. “Scott’s the second type of beta. The kind that won’t admit he’s wrong, say he’s sorry, and bake you your favourite cookies, so I have to choose between the physical punishment, and the act of service.”

Peter nods, confirming. “However, since you aren’t a headstrong idiot, I won’t insist you fulfil both requirements.”

“Well, thanks for that,” he mutters, more sarcasm seeping in than he’d intended.

“Mm. Now, shirt off, and on your knees, pet.”

Heart in his throat, Stiles obeys.

 

 

He’s not surprised the frustratingly loyal boy always chooses his belt, but he is disappointed. He’d much rather mark up that pretty pale flesh with his mouth and hands than his belt, and it’s only a matter of time before the boy starts to scar. The thought makes him want to snarl, but since the insolent McCall brat has yet to accept his place in the pack’s pecking order—or even that he needs a pack at all, the delusional twit—he does what he can to spare Stiles’s hide.

He even, on a day where the hollows under the clever boy’s eyes are dark as the night sky he should be sleeping away, asks, “Six stripes of my belt, or you strip down and let me suck you.”

Stiles’s cheeks burn red, the air suddenly heavy with the musk of arousal. “Belt!” he squeaks, turning around, away from his Alpha, and that just won’t do.

Peter slinks closer, pressing up against the deceptively-broad back to murmur in the boy’s ear. “Are you certain, pet?” He slides his hand around, pressing his palm to the vulnerable belly, and is gratified when the scent of _want_ grows stronger. “It would be easier on you to give me what we both want.”

The jittery heartbeat skips, and the boy’s scent turns resigned. “Getting what you want isn’t the point of punishment, Alpha,” he murmurs quietly, and oh, it’s like that, is it?

Peter steps back, that little piece of information tucked away for later. “Well, then. Shirt off, sweetheart.”

 

 

It’s getting to the point where he can’t remember what it feels like, to comfortably wear a shirt, let alone his backpack. And Scott, the lovable moron, just— _doesn’t get it_.

“He’s such a dick! He Bit me without permission so now, what, he’s the boss of me? Fuck that!”

Stiles drags in a deep breath, and feels the way it pulls at the healing welts along his shoulder blades. “It’s not about him being the boss of you, it’s about not making a bad situation any fucking worse, okay?”

Scott scoffs, waving a hand, and that’s just—that’s about all he can take, thanks. He grabs Scott’s shoulders, forcing eye contact. “Who the hell do you think has to do damage control when you piss him off, huh?”

Scott’s brow furrows. “. . . Derek?”

He lets go and shoves for good measure, because sweet fucking Christ on a cracker. “No, Scott! Me! I’m the one who has to convince him literally beating sense into you is a bad idea. I’m the one who has to deal with the fallout when you deliberately push his buttons.”

The uneven jaw is hanging open, and Stiles hopes, a little vindictively, that flies get in there. Mostly, he hopes his brother from another mother catches a fucking clue. “That’s—that’s so messed up! I mean, why—he shouldn’t be doing that to you!”

Stiles rubs his eyes, because glory, hallelujah, someone’s seen the light. “No, he shouldn’t, but since we can’t exactly send him to werewolf therapy, someone has to. And Derek isn’t about to take multiple beatings for you, dude, especially not when you were such a colossal dick to him.”

“Beatings?”

He looks up and sees the appalled look on Scott’s face, knows he’s remembering the Drunk Dad era, may Rafael drown in bureaucratic red tape and unsolved cases forever and ever, amen. “Yes, Scott. Beatings. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the werewolf life is a pretty violent one, what with hunters trying to kill you and shit. Not only that, but pack hierarchy is a thing that exists, and you won’t get with the program, which is making Peter,” he pauses, unsure of how to describe it in a way that won’t send Scott running to either the Sheriff or another confrontation with his Alpha, “more, uh. Volatile.”

Scott’s face is troubled. “He’s not, like—beating _you_ , is he?”

He takes a minute to be grateful there are so many interpretations to that word before muttering, “No, but he’s not exactly gentle when he’s that ticked off, so could you at least try to play nice with him, for my sake?”

Scott nods, but Stiles doesn’t get his hopes up. Still, it’s better. Maybe. Hopefully.

 

 

Peter knows his boy has tried to make Scott listen. He can feel it in the exhausted resignation settling in the pretty thing’s bones. And it’s important that the thick-headed idiot get with the program, because there are hunters here, now, lured back by his initial rampage. As much as Peter would like to simply kill them and be done with it, be knows that would only call more hunters down on their heads, and he likes living. His pack isn’t big enough yet to wage war against hunters and survive.

So he gives Scott the easiest possible task: protect Stiles. It doesn’t require any loyalty to him whatsoever, and isn’t even unpleasant. Stay together. That’s all he asks.

 

 

When they break into his home, he fights back, because of course he does. But he’s only seventeen, and these men are trained in ways he’ll never be. His last thought as he loses consciousness is to be grateful that at least his dad wasn’t here to get caught in the middle of it.

 

 

It’s only Christopher’s hand on his back that stops him from charging when he sees his beautiful boy bound, bruises rising on his creamy skin. The touch makes his skin crawl, but it gives him pause enough to realize he can’t simply tear his way through the hunter scum, because it is, undoubtedly, what they want him to do.

Christopher, for all that he’d protested the killing of his sister, understood that pack law gave Peter the right to do it. That he could have squeezed the Argents as a whole for more, if he’d gone to the Hunter Tribunal with the proof of what she’d done. He believes in his Code, even if he despises Peter, which is why he steps in. “You know, kidnapping a pack member might be interpreted as an act of war.”

The woman heading this faction—Paolo, Cheyanne Paolo—shrugs. “So is killing humans.” She turns to Peter. “Aren’t you mutts the ones who believe in ‘an eye for an eye’?”

He smirks, keeps his voice casual even as he pictures ripping her heart from her chest. “Considering the fact that dear departed Miss Argent murdered my pack and burned me alive, I’d say her death was more than warranted.”

Paolo tuts. “But what did you do, Peter? Hunters don’t go after the few innocent among your kind, after all.”

At that, Stiles pipes up. “She probably didn’t want Talia finding out she defiled the Alpha’s baby boy, because everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows statutory rape is bad,” he rasps, face twisted up in condescension despite being the one in ropes, and Peter takes a moment to be proud the boy is his.

And then the words, the meaning of them, sinks in, and he breathes as his claws slip free. He doesn’t doubt the boy, not for a moment, because he’s always known the clever thing has a knack for putting pieces together, but _he didn’t know_ before this, and it makes him wish Kate was still alive so he could make her death slow, this time.

One of Paolo’s goons cracks Stiles in the ribs with the butt of his rifle, and Peter has to grit his teeth. “I see how it is, Cheyanne,” he murmurs, silk-smooth and razor-sharp. “You and yours can torture an innocent teenage boy, but I’m the monster for surviving an assassination attempt. Dare I even ask what you did with my beta?”

Her scent flickers with confusion, and then deepens with anger. “What beta? This _is_ your beta,” she waves a hand at Stiles, and he sees the moment it clicks for her. She rounds on Stiles, gripping his jaw and wrenching his head to the side.

Peter snarls, but being forced to bare his throat doesn’t make Stiles shift the way it would nearly any other beta, and she steps away, blanching. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” When she looks his way, he knows he’s in beta-shift, that she’ll see the bloodlust all over his face. “So why don’t you return him to me, and then you can start explaining why I shouldn’t paint the walls with your blood.”

 

 

He’s not ashamed to admit he’s relieved when Cheyanne lets the kid go. He’s an annoying little shit, but he doesn’t deserve to be on the wrong end of a hunter’s gun, never mind the clusterfuck that’d ensue if a hunter murdered the Sheriff’s only son.

The kid limps towards his Alpha, and Chris knows he’s not imagining the murder lurking in those eyes. “Hale,” he tosses his keys, and Hale catches them almost absently, “get the kid out of here, I’ll wrap the negotiations.”

Hale cocks his head, eyes lit up crimson and Stiles shaking against him, and Chris prays to a god he doesn’t quite believe in that Hale leaves the hunters to him, that he doesn’t go on (another) rampage. In the end, it’s the kid whimpering, “Take me home, please, _please_ Alpha,” that has Hale leaving with a sneer and a pointed stare at Cheyanne.

And now, damage control. Chris rubs his face, silently cursing his baby sister. It’s probably her fault somehow. “Jesus, Cheyanne,” he groans.

She bristles. “You didn’t tell me he had a human packmate!”

He narrows his eyes at her. “And what difference would that have made?”

She scoffs, jaw clenching. “We don’t harm humans. As it is, now we probably owe him reparations!” She flings an arm in the direction he left in.

“And?” He gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

“ _And_ , Christopher, if we’d had one of his betas, we’d have had leverage! We could’ve gotten somewhere!”

He squares his shoulders and crosses his arms. “Let me make one thing very clear, Cheyanne. The Hale pack is under Argent supervision, and I don’t take kindly to poachers. Furthermore,” he raises his voice over her protests, “that packmate you kidnapped happens to be a cop’s kid, and we both know your clan doesn’t have a great track record with law enforcement.”

It’s suddenly so silent you could hear a pin drop. “ _Fuck_ ,” Cheyanne breathes. Then, “Call the others. Pack everything, wheels up in thirty. Less if we can swing it.”

“You still have two outstanding warrants in the state of California?”

She shoots him a dark glare. “Three. Probably four, if the kid blabs.” She pauses, then, “You think he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

He laughs before he thinks about it. “Stiles? Not a goddamn chance. Kid talks like he breathes.”

She nods, and it’s curt, but then she and her men are gone, and not likely to return. He just hopes they spread the word that Beacon Hills is off-limits.

Now he gets to deal with Hale. Joy.

 

 

Peter has Chris drop them off at Stiles’s house. There are hours until the Sheriff gets off work, and while Peter would much prefer to take Stiles and hole up somewhere secret, he knows the boy’s father wouldn’t appreciate it. Especially since Christopher is on his way to make a report to said father now. Might as well throw the good Sheriff a bone, help him catch a wanted criminal.

Which means his only priority for the moment is Stiles, who is currently clinging to him and shaking. Peter rubs hands up and down his back, and lets him cling. It's gratifying, that he's seeking comfort and security from his Alpha.

“Hush, darling, you're alright. I've got you,” he croons, and, as much as he was enjoying mingling their scents, Peter's pleased when his boy huffs.

“S'just adrenaline shakes.”

He hums. “Of course. And it's not at all because you trust your Alpha to care for you in your moment of need.”

The cheeky thing snorts at that. “I'll be fine.”

Peter grips the back of his neck, pulling him away from where he'd been burrowing into his Alpha's shoulder. “You _will_ be,” Peter says evenly, flashing his wolf-eyes.

Understanding widens the pretty doe eyes. “Oh. That, um,” Stiles swallows convulsively, his scent sharpening with frightened anticipation.

Peter hums in agreement, and starts chivvying the silly thing up the stairs. Derek's lurking outside, probably drawn in by the distress and murderous rage pinging down his pack bonds for the last hour. Seems his nephew isn't a complete write-off after all.

Once upstairs, he starts peeling a confused but pliant Stiles out of his layers. “Let me see, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the boy's scent settles. Insatiably curious little thing.

(He's a boy after Peter's own heart, not that he'd welcome the knowledge, but oh, it makes the urge to _keep him_ , in permanent and questionably legal ways, so much stronger.)

Stiles shifts, discomfort in his movements and anxiety oozing out his pores, when Peter growls upon seeing him shirtless. Outside, Derek's heartbeat spikes, but he stays put for the moment. Peter doesn't pay either of them any mind, carefully feeling along the bruise blackening on his boy's ribs.

Stiles whines pitifully, but holds still. “That's it, that's my good boy, I know it hurts, but I need to see if they're broken.”

Tears are welling up in his chocolate eyes, and oh, that's pretty. “Hurts, Alpha,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Peter rubs his thumb back and forth across the hip he’s bracing. “I know it does, sweetheart. But I can't take your pain until I know whether or not a trip to the ER is in order.”

Derek's heartbeat positively _hammers_ at that, which is very, very interesting. It seems his nephew is invested in their human packmate. Something to keep in mind. For the moment, however, he keeps his attention on the pretty boy whimpering under his hands, and not the way he'd prefer.

“Cracked,” he announces grimly.

Stiles sighs. “Great.”

Peter focusses then on the more superficial injuries—specifically, the faint bruises on the milky skin of the boy's wrists and forearms. His layers spared him worse. Which just leaves—“How did they get you to come with them?”

“What?”

He holds up one unblemished, long-fingered hand. “No defensive wounds, which suggests another method.”

Stiles tugs out of Peter's grip. Peter lets him. “So sorry I couldn't fight back against the trained killers well enough for you.”

“Stiles.” He waits until the boy meets his eyes. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

Stiles looks away. “Pretty sure they drugged me. I remember being jabbed with something, and then I just—faded in and out for a while.”

Peter hums. It would explain why Stiles has been a little off, less steady than usual, more needy. He can’t say he minds. “And where was Scott, during all this?”

He gets a half-hearted shrug. “Texted me to say he was gonna hang out with Allison, so.”

Peter doesn’t join Derek in cursing the day the horny little idiot was born, but it’s a close thing. “I see.”

Stiles cringes a little at his Alpha’s disappointment, even though it’s not directed at him. The boy’s scent turns fearful and resigned. “I’m guessing he wasn’t supposed to do that?”

“No, he wasn’t.” Peter unbuttons the boy’s jeans, and pushes them down slim hips. “In fact, I specifically told him to stay with you, that there were hunters in the area, and you would be safer together.”

“Buddy system,” Stiles mutters, stepping out of his jeans absent-mindedly.

Peter hums an affirmative. “But apparently disobeying his Alpha matters more to him than his best friend’s safety.”

It’s sharp and unkind, causing fresh hurt to blossom in Stiles’s scent and expression. He folds the pretty boy into his arms. “I’m not upset with you, pet. I am, however, very angry at your friend.”

Stiles's scent turns ashen, the mix of betrayal and dread acrid. Peter kisses his cheek. “Let's get you cleaned up, hmm?”

The pretty thing's still reeling, and doesn't protest being peeled out of his boxers and steered into the bathroom. He definitely notices Peter stripping off and joining him in the shower, his face reddening with embarrassment. “Um.”

He chuckles. “Realized I meant that literally, did you?” Curiosity oozes from every pale, mole-speckled inch, and Peter wraps an arm around his waist, hauling the boy against his chest as his veins blacken with borrowed pain.

Stiles moans in relief, slumping against his chest. “Oh, fuck, please don't stop.”

Hearing that makes something dark and possessive spark to life in his chest, and Peter suddenly knows how he's going to resolve this last, McCall-shaped loose end. He struggles not to let the victory he feels show, unwilling to tip his hand. Instead, he lathers a washcloth and hides his smirk in the boy's nape. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

The exhausted little thing works with him as Peter drags the soapy cloth over his battered body, clearly on autopilot from the pain-drain and whatever drugs the hunters pumped into him.

But he still notices when Peter’s soapy fingers slide into his cleft, and then worm inside him. “Wait, what’s—”

“Just cleaning you up, pet. Doesn’t it feel good?”

It does, he _knows_ it does—Stiles smells like confused want and his cock is twitching against his thigh, plumping up. Stiles whines a distressed affirmative, and Peter kisses his temple. “Don’t fret, sweet boy. I’m just getting you ready for what’s coming. Because you know what’s coming, don’t you?”

He pumps his fingers lazily, angling them so the water can wash away the soap. “Punishment,” Stiles sobs, and even over the sound of the water, Peter can hear Derek curse.

“You can always refuse, sweet boy, let Scott face the consequences of his actions for a change.”

But he’s already shaking his head no, and Peter couldn’t have asked the poor thing to play into his hands any more perfectly. “No—you can’t, he won’t—”

He shushes the boy, dragging his teeth up the side of the flushed throat. “I don’t like punishing you for his sins, Stiles. Not when he’s more than old enough to know better.”

The body in his arms trembles, and Peter’s not sure what from—not that it matters. Stiles doesn’t speak, just pulls away from him enough to let Peter see the way his head bows and his shoulders slump. “I agreed to this. We had a deal. I’ll take it.”

Peter turns the water off and dries them both, listening absent-mindedly to the way Derek prowls closer. Stiles is the one who breaks the silence. “Just—gimme a few days to recover? I don’t think I could handle it right now.”

For some reason, it rubs him the wrong way, and Peter feels his eyes flash. “No, pet. I’ve been lenient with you, because your little friend’s infractions have been relatively minor. This?” He palms the bruised ribs, barely skimming the skin, but it’s enough to make Stiles gasp in pain. “This isn’t minor. He deliberately disobeyed his Alpha, on a matter of pack security, and he could’ve cost you your life.”

“What? No, it—they weren’t—”

Peter refuses to let his clever boy play dumb for his idiot friend’s benefit. “What if they had injected you with wolfsbane?” The boy’s jaw snaps shut. “Aconite poisoning will kill you even faster than it would a werewolf, and it would be an agonizing death at that.”

He closes a hand carefully around one bruised wrist. “The only way this waits to be addressed is if we do this in front of your little friend, so he can see exactly what his idiocy cost you.”

As expected, Stiles struggles. But rather than let go, Peter tightens his grip, and the boy stills. “No, no, no, I told you, Scott can’t find out, that was—”

“Then you agree to accept punishment now?” His eyes flare and his claws itch as they slide free from his nail beds. The entire boy’s body slumps, curling inwards, and the salt-tang of tears tinge the air.

“Yes, Alpha,” he whispers, and because Peter’s not a total monster, regardless of what some might think, he draws the poor dear close, cooing and kissing his cheeks, forehead, eyelids.

“Trust me, Stiles,” he murmurs, and it’s a gamble, asking for that, but the boy just nods, eyes scrunched shut, and lets Peter lead him into his bedroom. And, well. It’s no great declaration, but it’s progress. Peter can work with this.

He gestures the pretty boy onto the bed, and Stiles hesitates. “Um.” He pauses, eyes huge and dark in his face, his tongue darting over lips Peter’s fantasized about more than once. “Are you—what—how many?”

He quirks an eyebrow and pretends not to understand. “Care to make that an actual sentence, sweetheart?”

He hears Derek snort, and has to suppress a smirk. Stiles scowls at him, but drags in a deep breath. “How many strokes of your belt, Alpha?”

“Oh, you won’t be belted tonight, pet.” Satisfaction unfurls in his gut and heats his blood when he moves closer, and his boy’s heart takes off like a frightened rabbit. “I don’t think you’re really capable of taking that, are you?”

Stiles’s throat bobs as he swallows, and it makes Peter want to _bite_ , leave a bright ring of teeth marks where everyone will see it and know Stiles is taken. “No.”

“No,” he repeats. “And, to be perfectly clear with you, I’ve never been happy about this little arrangement you insisted on. You’re entirely too valuable to be wasted as Scott McCall’s whipping boy.”

“Noted,” Stiles rasps. “But—”

“But,” Peter repeats, guiding the pretty boy to lie on the bed, “since you insist on saving that brat’s hide, we’re going to do it my way, tonight.”

The boy acquiesces prettily, dropping his eyes and muttering, “Yes, Alpha.” But he can’t stop the way fear spices his scent, even as he lets Peter position him.

When he’s on his uninjured side, his top leg bent and cute ass exposed, Peter asks, “Comfortable?”

Stiles pauses, and then shifts a little before nodding. He doesn’t speak.

But no matter. He doesn’t need the pretty thing’s words anyway. Peter crawls up the bed, settling behind him before cupping the bent thigh, holding it in place as he licks over the clenched little pucker. Stiles yelps in surprise, and Peter hushes him. “Shh, pet. It’s alright. I’m going to open you up on my tongue first, make it good.”

“I—I don’t want—”

“Ah, but weren’t you the one who told me ‘punishment isn’t about getting what you want’?” Stiles is silent, and Peter licks again. “You can’t take a belting, and I don’t particularly want to give you one. What you can do, however, is lie here as you take what I give you. And, if you’re a good boy,” he sucks a soft kiss against the little opening that’s already starting to soften under his gentle attention, “I’ll take care of you.”

He draws some of Stiles’s pain, and feels the shiver that runs down the boy’s spine as he understands what Peter means. “Yes, Alpha. I—I’ll be good.”

He grins and nips one pert cheek. “I know you will. Now. Do you have actual lube, or are you still buying lotion and pretending it’s for your face?”

Stiles shoots him a dirty look, but doesn’t say whatever he’s clearly thinking, rummaging for his lube before handing it over with a pointed glare. Peter chuckles, and sets it on the bed where he can reach it. He doesn’t need it quite yet.

He dives back in with his tongue, startling another little yip out of Stiles, who immediately blushes. “Sorry, I’ll be good, didn’t mean to.”

Peter traces the tip of his tongue in a swirl. “No need to apologize, pet. Your father’s not home, so there’s no need stay quiet. Especially not on my account.”

He spends long minutes licking and sucking and nibbling, until the boy is whimpering and subtly rocking back against his face. It’s only then that he pulls back and rubs a thumb against the spit-slick rim. Stiles twitches, but settles easily enough. Peter presses, and is gratified when it pulls the boy open, ever so slightly.

He flicks the lube cap and slicks his fingers. It doesn’t escape his notice that Stiles tenses, and that just won’t do. “Easy, pet. I won’t hurt you.” He rubs at the boy’s rim in firm little passes, getting him used to it.

Stiles exhales noisily. “Pretty sure that taking an entire cock up my ass for the first time is gonna hurt no matter what.”

Peter slips a fingertip inside him, and starts rotating it slowly. “If you haven’t worked up to it with toys, then yes, it does tend to. But that’s not what’s happening here.”

His surprise and relief are lemon-lime sharp. “It’s not?”

“Mm, no.” He uses the unguarded moment to screw his finger in deeper, and the boy takes it easily. Peter suspects he’s fingered himself before. “I’ll be coming inside you, marking you as mine,” the scent of arousal—present but muted before now—suddenly spikes, “but I won’t fuck you tonight, pet. You’re not ready for that.”

This time, the “Yes, Alpha,” is half-sobbed and wet with gratitude. It makes him want oh, _so_ many things. For the moment, however, he eases a second finger in to join the first.

His sweet boy is rolling his hips as best he can, with Peter holding his leg in place and draining his pain, so after another minute or two playing with the boy’s rim and scissoring his fingers, he decides it’s time. He slicks up his cock, and guides the head into place.

“Deep breath, pet, that’s it,” he murmurs, pushing slowly but inexorably.

He’s almost inside when Stiles panics. “Wait, Alpha, I can’t—”

“You can, baby. It’s just the tip, you can take it.”

“Just the tip?!”

Peter smirks at the half-incredulous, half-scared expression on the boy’s face. “I told you, I’m going to come inside your plush little ass, mark you as mine, but I won’t give you more than you can handle.”

“I—I just—”

He leans forward, pressing ever-so-slightly into the hot clutch of Stiles’s body, though he’s not actually inside, not yet. “You said you’d be good for me, pet. So be a good boy, and open up for me. Stop fighting and take what your Alpha’s giving you.”

The boy gives a little sob, and then he goes limp, letting Peter slide in easy as pie. “That’s it,” he breathes, “I knew you could do it. Knew you could let me in.”

Peter closes his eyes, squeezing his shaft and luxuriating in the clench-and-release around his cockhead as Stiles tries to relax around the intrusion. It’s hard to resist the urge to thrust, to grind deep and rock against the boy’s prostate until he can’t help but come on his Alpha’s cock, but Peter knows that delight will be all the sweeter for waiting. So he mutters praise as he works himself closer to orgasm, delighting in the boy’s confused arousal and overwhelmed tears.

The thought of his come permeating all those delicate tissues so thoroughly that Stiles won’t be able to wash him away, that Scott and Derek will be able to smell Peter on him for at least the next week, is what tips him over. He comes with a grunt, and the suddenness of it must surprise Stiles, because the boy tightens around him, prolonging the exquisite moment.

And, after, because he’s a man of his word, he curls against his boy’s back and wraps a hand around his weeping erection, jacking him hard and fast until he comes all over Peter’s hand, still cradling his Alpha’s cock and holding his come inside like a good boy.

 

 

Given that the day’s events included kidnapping, forced drugging, a beating, and an intense orgasm, Peter isn’t surprised that Stiles drifts to sleep not long after Peter pulls out and helps him into a pair of pajama bottoms. As the Alpha, however, there are things he needs to attend to, so as much as he wishes otherwise, he can’t wrap around his human packmate and settle in for a well-earned nap. There’s the downstairs to set to rights, because it can’t look like a crime scene when the Sheriff arrives, and then there’ll be the matter of Stiles going to the station to make his statement, have his injuries photographed and such. And, as much as Peter would like to be there while it’s happening, he’ll be busy.

By then, Derek will have gone to Scott, intending to read him the riot act over his abuse of the Rite of Substitution. McCall won’t listen, of course, too outraged over the thought of the Big Bad Wolf taking advantage of his poor, fragile friend. He’ll be so incensed, in fact, that he’ll run straight to Peter to confront him, and, if he’s very unlucky, he’ll cross paths with Christopher along the way—who’ll take one look at his flashing eyes and frothing rage and conclude that Peter was right, the boy’s gone feral, denying his Alpha and refusing a pack. And it’ll be a tragedy, but Christopher will be honour-bound to put the omega down before he exposes the supernatural—or worse, harms an innocent. Like dear, sweet, ignorant Allison, who has no idea what really goes bump in the dark.

But even if he’s not lucky enough to have Chris tie up that loose end for him, the McCall problem will be solved one way or another. Betas who challenge their Alpha and lose are either brought to heel, or put down. Stiles would likely prefer the former, but if Peter can convince the boy to take the Bite, the packbonds and new abilities should take his mind off it. And, even if he can’t, another orgasm will certainly do the trick.

It’s always a good day when a plan comes together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings:  
> 1) The kidnapping and drugging do happen to Stiles, but are perpetuated by OCs.  
> 2) Stiles is 17 here--which makes him above age of consent in my country, but I dunno what the rules are where you live.  
> 3) Stiles agrees to take Scott's punishments. For most of the fic, Peter lets him pick one of two options, and Stiles consistently chooses corporal punishment in the form of belting. In the second half of the fic, he's injured, and Peter does not let him choose due to the nature of his injuries.  
> 4) Peter is arguably insane here. He's definitely still in Murder McCrazypants territory.   
> 5) This fic isn't exactly Scott-positive, though it's not _anti_ -Scott, either.   
>  
> 
> I don't know what to tell you. December was a very stressful, fucked-up time for me on a lot of levels. This was the result. 
> 
> Title taken from The Gaslight Anthem's Ain't That A Shame.


End file.
